Blutom Tor

Phrase

Translation: Heartbreak

Definition: Blutom Tor represents the breaking of the heart, whether through emotional pain, loss, or betrayal. The combination of Blutom (heart) and Tor (breaking) captures the profound ache and shattering of one's emotional saat.

Mediah pushed himself to his feet, the sting of the cold sand clinging to his palms fading as he rose. His eyes didn't leave Doriana's sight, and for a moment, the world seemed to be still.

She stood there, illuminated by the faint glow of the two moonlights. Her wild hair, blown by the sea breeze, framed her face in soft, chaotic waves. Her mismatched eyes, one glinting like amber and the other deep as the sea, held a quiet strength that seemed to anchor him. The faint rise and fall of her chest, the way she clutched the bag at her side as though it carried more than just her belongings—it all drew him in like a tide he couldn't resist.

He had seen beautiful women before, but none like her. There was something deeper than beauty in Doriana, something that seemed to glow from within. Her magic hummed faintly around her, a presence as natural as the air they breathed. It wasn't overwhelming or ostentatious—it was powerful in its restraint, like a river flowing with quiet purpose. Yet, it invaded him, nestling inside of him. Her magic was the perfect match to his.

But it wasn't just her magic that held him. It was the kindness etched into every line of her face, the wisdom that shone through even when she was silent. She carried herself with a grace that belied her age, her wisdom earned through experiences she rarely spoke of. And yet, there was a softness to her—a gentleness that contradicted the stormy world they lived in.

Mediah felt it in his very saat, a love that didn't just reside in his heart but in every fibre of his being. It wasn't the fleeting kind of love that could be swept away by time. It was an unshakable truth that anchored him no matter how wild the seas of his life became. He loved her with every ounce of his being, every beat of his heart, every pulse of his saat. He was utterly and undeniably in love with Doriana.

And he knew, without doubt or hesitation, that he would never love anyone like this again. Doriana wasn't just a chapter in his life—she was the ink, the parchment, the story itself. She was his everything.

Yet, Mediah snatched his bag from Doriana's grasp with a force that caught her off guard. The suddenness made her stumble, her balance faltering for a brief moment before she steadied herself. She looked confused.

"Go inside!" he barked through the cold air like the crack of a whip. His back was already to her, his shoulders rigid as he hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.

"What are you talking about?"

Mediah's movements were brisk, almost mechanical, as he adjusted the bag strap. "Go back to your home where you belong," he said, his tone flat. "Start acting like a wife."

"Medi, this isn't funny."

"I agree. It's not funny," he shot back with a bitterness that cut deeper than the chill in the air. His feet shifted, but he didn't look at her. "Go!"

Doriana didn't move. She stood her ground, the snow beginning to gather on her hair and shoulders as it fell in soft, silent flakes.

"Auf tu! I said go!" Mediah shouted, his voice cracking under the strain of his emotions. "Auf!"

Doriana flinched but didn't retreat. She took a hesitant step forward. "If we leave now, we might catch the boat for the Turtle District and—"

"What part of go didn't you understand?" Mediah interrupted coldly, the words slicing through the quiet snowfall. He stepped back, putting more space between them, his bag slung over his shoulder.

"Didn't you hear your husband?" he continued with cruel mockery. "I'm an incubus. You were just a means to an end—a warm bed and unlimited access to magic. The food wasn't bad either."

The words hit her like a slap.

"If I knew you'd cost me all the coin I needed for the camp," Mediah spat, dripping with bitterness, "I would've never even fucked you. I mean, you are a good fuck, a really good one indeed, but not that good for all those coins... no offence." He adjusted the bag once more on his shoulder, his jaw tightening as his gaze flicked away from her. "My mistake," he muttered, his tone almost hollow now. "But we learn from them."

Doriana stood frozen, her hands trembling as she clutched the folds of her dress. The snowfall thickened, soft flakes settling on her lashes, but she didn't blink. Her mismatched eyes searched his face for any trace of the man she knew.

But Mediah wouldn't look at her. He turned slightly, the snow crunching under his feet as he shifted his weight. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his shoulders rigid as if bracing against his own words.

Doriana stepped closer, her voice trembling as she asked, "What are you talking about? Why are you acting like this?"

Her fingers reached out, clutching at the edge of Mediah's robe as if anchoring herself to something slipping away. But he flinched, jerking back violently, her grip faltering as the fabric slipped from her hands.

"For fuck's sake, go away!" Mediah's voice thundered, cutting through the falling snow. "I'm done with you."

"But this morning," she whispered, her voice breaking, "you said—"

"Forget what I said," he growled. "I lied! What part of that don't you understand?"

He stepped back again as if widening the chasm between them. "You think I want to share my life with someone like you?" His voice cracked with anger. "You're fucking crazy!"

Doriana's body froze in place as his words tore through her. The snow fell softly around them.

"You talk about knowing what's coming," he sneered, jabbing a finger toward her, "but you didn't see this coming, did you? You know why?" His voice lowered, but the intensity didn't waver. He pressed a finger against his temple, his eyes narrowing. "Because it's all in your fucking head!"

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The words left Doriana standing there, her face pale and her hands trembling as the snow settled quietly at their feet.

Mediah's fists clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as the words spilt from his mouth. Every syllable felt like splinters, cutting into him as much as they were into her. He could barely meet her gaze, afraid that if he saw the hurt there, he'd break.

Just leave, he begged silently, the prayer looping desperately in his mind. Turn around and walk away. Hate me if you need to, but leave.

It took every ounce of his willpower to stay rigid, to not reach out and pull her into his arms, to not tell her the truth—that he loved her more than anything, more than himself. But he couldn't. He couldn't be that selfish.

"But we're meant to be… we are!" Doriana's words stumbled, her mismatched eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You love me. You said so. You said…"

Her voice faltered, the last word barely escaping her lips. She stood there, exposed and vulnerable, her pain unravelling between them as the snow swirled softly around her.

Mediah's grip tightened around the worn leather strap of his bag as he swung it down, the weight hitting the sand and snow with a muted thud. Without hesitation, he reached inside and pulled out the book, the pages curling slightly at the edges from the damp air.

He opened the book, his fingers finding the page with the Hexe. His eyes lingered on the intricate lines and symbols for only a moment before he ripped it free. The sound of tearing paper seemed to echo louder than the crash of waves against the rocks behind them.

Mediah held the torn page aloft, the intricate spell etched onto its surface glowing faintly in the pale moonlight. His hand trembled, but his expression was set—cold, distant.

Doriana's breath caught as her eyes locked onto the page. Her chest heaved, and her voice broke as she whispered, "Please don't… please… Don't do this. Don't leave me again."

This moment—this fracture in Mediah's life—was one he knew would mark him forever. A once-in-a-lifetime agony, searing, destined to scar him. Yet, even as he felt its weight pressing down, he knew it wasn't truly singular.

For her, it wasn't just once.

How many times had she stood here before, in this exact unbearable moment? How many times had she watched him walk away, carrying pieces of her with him? The thought clawed at him, digging deep, each imagined goodbye stabbing sharper than the last.

He could see it now, the echo of every time he had left her: the same pain reflected in her mismatched eyes, the same trembling in her outstretched hands, the same desperate plea caught in her voice. How many lifetimes had she endured this torment while he lived each goodbye as if it were his first?

The realization twisted inside him, his breath catching as if the air itself rebelled against his lungs. He stared at her, standing fragile yet defiant against the storm of his choice. And all he could think was how cruel it was—how cruel he was—to make her endure it again.

She would never know. She would never see the weight he carried for her, the silent sacrifices etched into his every step, or the lengths he was willing to go for her and the fragile life she bore within her. Did she even know? Did she realize she was pregnant?

Every part of him longed to embrace her, to share in the quiet joy of their child, to let himself dream of a life together. He wanted to be selfish, to take her hand and leave it all behind. He wanted to take her with him.

But where?

To a cold tent pitched in the middle of nowhere? To a life of hardship.

No.

This was the right thing. It had to be.

She stood there, trembling, her eyes pleading, but she would never understand the quiet oath carved into his saat.

Mediah's fingers trembled slightly as he held the page between them, the intricate lines of the Hexe glowing faintly against the dim light.

He couldn't give her what Muru could—stability, comfort, the illusion of safety. He couldn't offer her wealth or a gilded life within stone walls. But what he could give, what he would bleed for, was something no vault of coin could buy.

He would give her a world bathed in light. A world where the shadows retreated before the sun, where the sky blazed with warmth and life instead of the cold indifference of Winter's Long Night. He would give her Summer.

The thought etched itself into his saat, an unspoken promise that burned deeper than magic, more binding than any spell. His grip tightened, and with a flick of his wrist, the page of the Hexe ignited.

The fire crackled softly, spreading quickly over the parchment. The runes dissolved into flickering embers, curling and blackening before scattering into ash.

The ashes floated between them, a delicate dance of tiny, weightless fragments that shimmered faintly in the cold air before drifting away, swallowed by the snow and the dark.

As the last of the ash disappeared, Mediah looked up at her. He would give her Summer even if it cost him everything.

"I never loved you." Mediah's fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. "I never loved you," he repeated, his voice flat and detached. "But saying those words… it makes things easier for a man to get what he wants."

Behind him, Doriana didn't move. She stood like a statue, her breath a faint mist in the cold air. Her gaze burned into his back, and though he couldn't see it, he felt it.

Something had shifted in her, something irreplaceable. He could feel it breaking, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

Her silence tore at him more than any word could. He couldn't know what he had taken from her, but he could sense it would never come back.

"Go back to Muru," he said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "Be his wife. He's a good man… he just lost a lot. Like we all did."

He adjusted the strap on his shoulder, ready to leave, to walk away and let the cold swallow him whole.

And then her voice cut through the stillness, brittle and raw.

"What is it?"

Mediah's steps faltered, his grip on the bag tightening until his knuckles turned white. He didn't turn around. He couldn't.

"What do you mean?" he asked, though the words came out stiff, barely above a whisper.

"What is it you want, Medi?" she said, her voice breaking on his name. "What do you want so badly that you'd say these things to me?"

Her question pierced through his defences, and Mediah hesitated. He turned slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of her through the snow that swirled softly between them.

Her shoulders slumped, her arms hanging at her sides as though all the strength had drained from her. Her mismatched eyes, wide and glistening, searched his face, desperate for an answer.

"Why?" she asked. "What did I do? Did I say something? Why do you reject me every time? I can't see past this point. I have no idea… why."

Her pain was raw, laid bare for him to see, and it sliced through him deeper than any blade. She looked so lost, so broken, standing there as though the snow itself might bury her where she stood.

Mediah's throat tightened. He couldn't hurt her any further; he didn't have any strength left for that.

"Go," he said softly. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze any longer. "Lay with your husband. Have a child. Be happy. That's all I ask."

He shifted the bag higher on his shoulder as he began to walk away. The snow crunched faintly beneath his feet, the sound swallowed quickly by the roar of the distant waves.

Her voice didn't follow him this time.

She didn't call out, didn't beg him to stop. She stood frozen in place, her figure growing smaller as he moved further away.

And with each step, the hollow inside him deepened, carving a space that would never be filled. He didn't look back. He couldn't.

From this day forward, he would carry the ache of this moment, the weight of what he had left behind—a void where her laughter, her touch, and her love should have been. A hollow that would remain with him for the rest of his days until his blood turned red.

I don't know what happened to Doriana after Mediah vanished from her life. I only know who her child was. How she endured—or if she even truly survived—the heartbreak remains a mystery. But I do know how her story ends, and I wish, with every fibre of my being, that I could have stopped her. Yet, what else could I offer when all she ever asked for was the chance to try again?

They say you must be a fool to repeat the same actions over and over, hoping for a different outcome. But Doriana's unwavering faith in happy endings was a force unto itself, one that defied logic, pain, and even despair. She believed, fiercely and unyieldingly, in the power of "the good guys win."

So, if you are reading this, Dori, and if by chance there's a smile on your face as you do, I bow humbly to your perseverance. It would mean that, sometimes and somewhen, along the way, you find your happy ending. And perhaps, just perhaps, it would also mean that I found mine. We should arrange a playtime or a tea party for the little ones. Just tell me the when and the where and we'll be there. — by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

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